The Log Driver by shouldbecleaning
by Twilight Diversity Contest
Summary: In 1911 Quebec, can a young French girl's head and heart be turned by a fleet-footed Scotsman?


**Title of Story: The Log Driver**

 **Story Summary: In 1911 Quebec, can a young French girl's head and heart be turned by a fleet-footed Scotsman?**

 **Pairing: Bella/Edward**

 **Rating: T**

 **Word Count (not including summary, header, or footnoted word translations): 11,807**

 **Disclaimer: _The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended._**

* * *

 _Based on a classic Canadian folk song by Wade Hemsworth c. 1979_

 _As sung by Anna and Kate McGarrigle with The Mountain City Four_

When you're young, you must abide by the rules and regulations of society. It can be comforting for some but, for others, constricting. When you're young but have lived in the same small town all your life, you feel all the more constricted by society. When your father is the local law enforcement, that constriction is almost asphyxiating. There is precious little freedom, and what little there is, is carefully managed. When your small town is ruled by the Catholic Church, your father, and society, there is little hope. The hope that lays in your breast and flutters your heart is spring. Spring is when things happen in the little town. Roads open again. Small flowers bloom, peeking their tiny heads out of mud and the last dregs of snow. The sap starts to run in the sugar maples, and there is a sweetness in the air that adds to the gaiety of the young.

I'm young and I've lived in this pokey little town my whole life. There is much sameness to life. Wake, work, worship, and rest. Repeat. I love my family. I love my friends. I love my job. But I seek something more. Something that I don't feel is offered by anything or anyone near here. The only thing that breaks the monotony is spring. We have harsh winters here in St. Thomas-Didyme. Cold wind blows in from Lac St. Jean along with heavy snows. It makes me fear for the local loggers. All winter, they toil at felling trees and stacking them beside the river. But with the end of Lent and winter's desolation comes a thrilling terror that awakens the spirit, a sweetness we've been deprived of, and a reward like no other. It heralds the summer warmth and fall bounty. And this year? This year, I'm old enough to participate. Old enough, but I still have to get past Papa and, worse, Maman to reach what I desire.

I'm not really sure what it is that I desire, exactly. The older girls talk when they don't notice me around. They come into the bakery for their mothers or to treat their husbands. The newly wed are a giddy sort and chatty, more so than the mothers with many children or the women who've been married for years. I guess that's because everything is still so new, and they've only just learned the answers to the questions that plague us single girls. Questions about men and their ways that Father Marcus would disapprove of and never answer. Our mothers deem us too young and innocent, and our fathers become flustered and silent at any such talk. One would think we still lived in the dark ages, but it's a new century and a new generation. It's 1911, and things are changing but much too slowly for me and my friends. We're seventeen, and it's time for us to find husbands. It's spring, and I'm young and ready for adventure.

Today, the chatter from the newly wedded is about what happened this time last year. Before they got engaged to respectable men from town or nearby, before they settled into the routine of caring for their own homes, and before they started the race to see who produced the first baby. The first dance of the season is next Friday, the first fun since the Lenten season began. Most men gave up drinking for Lent, so they have been becoming increasingly grumpy as the weeks passed. Most women gave up sweets. I'm hard-pressed to say which sex is more sullen by the end of Easter.

So, the first dance is more than just a celebration of spring. It's the first time the loggers from the nearby camps get to come to town before the drive begins. Easter is just before the thaw this year, so the lumberjacks will be cut loose for the weekend. It was early last year too, and that's what I overhear from the brides as they linger over palmier and tea. Last year's dance and the lumbermen. Rose's cousin Vera is extolling the virtues of dancing with the loggers. Her best friend's hat is threatening to fall off with all the vigorous nodding. Their other three companions are not originally from here and seem to know little of logging towns and the physical perfection of loggers.

Rose does. Rosalie knows everything. Her cousin Vera holds very little back, and Rose tells us what she learns. Vera, poor Vera, it took her two spring courting seasons to find a man willing to marry her. By virtue of her femaleness, she danced a lot with the loggers. I overheard a group of men joking that, by the end of winter, most loggers were so primed to find affection that a shapely tree could catch their eye. Vera was not a shapely tree, but the starved loggers danced with her.

Rose won't have Vera's problems at this year's dance. Rose is a beauty, and she looks every part the perfect young lady. She's not, but she looks it. Not that she's tainted or anything, but Rose is coarse, or at least, she is with us. She knows all the bad words, and she sprinkles them liberally into conversation. Alice genuflects more in a half-hour chat with Rose than she does most Sundays. Ah, lovely little Alice. She is so sheltered and not just because she works cleaning the rectory with her mother. Her family is just that much more Catholic than the rest of us. Or so we were made to feel by her mother.

And then there is me. Plain, boring me. Only child in the family. Short, but not as short as Alice. Slender, but not as willowy as Rose. Dark hair and dark eyes, but nothing noteworthy or spectacular. I wouldn't even call myself pretty. My maman, now there is a beauty. She had many marriage proposals before she even came of marrying age. She only had eyes for Papa, which led to many broken hearts all over the Saguenay Valley. I wouldn't be surprised if tales of her reached Montreal or beyond.

However, I can cook and bake, which should be enough to catch me a suitor or two. Preferably a nice man who keeps himself clean and doesn't use violence to get his way. A calm man but passionate at the right times, if you know what I mean. I wish I really knew what that meant. If I'm wishing and hoping, I may as well wish for a handsome man as well. It's not a requirement; I'd take personality over appearance, but one who is easy to look at over the dinner table would be nice. Strong; of course, he must be strong. Agile is a good quality for I do love to dance. Able to carry a conversation would be an asset.

Who am I kidding? My list means little, for I myself am not strong, agile, or a brilliant conversationalist. I am much too shy and hide behind my baking. I know this of myself and fear that I will remain a spinster baker for the rest of my life. Perhaps I'll grow extraordinarily fat and scare my friends' children for sport. That could be the life that awaits me.

The chiming of the church bells startles me, and I know I must resume my work. Only a few more hours to go before I run over to Rose's, and Alice will fit me in my new dress for the dance. She is a marvel with a needle, that Alice, and generous with her time.

Thursday arrives with bad weather. Snow. Wet, heavy snow that makes it difficult to walk and clings to your clothes. The hem of my dress is wet and my boots soggy. I so wish I could remove my boots and dry them by the stoves, but Madame Goff would scream and fire me for such impertinence. She takes issue with feet and cleanliness. In the heat of summer, she's been known to take a wooden spoon to any child who dares enter the bakery without footwear regardless of the temperature.

So, I suffer with an extra pound of water in my stockings. They might dry by quitting time, and most likely they will, for Thursdays are late closing days. Wednesdays we close early for evening services therefore we make up the hours on the next day.

I'm filling my third tray of petite tartes au sucre while keeping an eye on my galette aux prunes so they don't burn. Madame has me making extra of everything to supply the dance with treats. Doing so many things at once, it takes a few moments for the fact that there are three men standing just inside the door of the bakery waiting for me to help them to register in my notice. It was the stomping of giant boots that caught my attention. I smile and welcome them to find a seat as they begin to remove their wet outer clothes. Scarves are unwound but left to dangle. Coats are unbuttoned but remain on. Gloves are stuffed into deep pockets until the men are ready to take a seat at a table. It is a production to transition from outdoors to indoors, and every person has their own unique routine. These men move at a speed that tells me they are loggers. If loggers dawdle too much, they lose eating time, and men with big working appetites need all the eating time they can get. The habit is hard to break when one is no longer at the camp. One of them catches my eye and gives me a shy smile as if he knows what is going through my mind. I smile back and curtsey a little, just enough to put myself back into a servile place so he doesn't think I'm making fun of him or his friends.

Two of them sit at a large table and settle themselves in, chatting the whole time. The one with the shy smile pulls off his toque to reveal long blond shaggy hair. The one across from him has much shorter, curlier, and darker hair. That one has a happy look on his face. He calls out to the third man, and I turn to look at him. He is standing still at the door, staring at me. I have no idea why; I'm nothing to look at in my apron and cap. I have sugar, butter, and flour all over me. Perhaps he's waiting for a more formal greeting.

"Please, mister, have a seat, and I'll be with you shortly." I give him my most professional voice.

He blinks a few times, tilts his head to one side, and then frowns at me. His friend calls him again, and he lumbers off to the table. I don't know what I've done to displease him but I shrug off the feeling and go to wash my hands. I walk over to them as I'm drying my hands on a corner of my apron.

"What can I get for you gentlemen today?" I ask.

The three of them take turns looking at each other. The blond one nudges the curly-haired one, and the curly-haired one clears his throat.

He looks at me and smiles. He has huge dimples, one on each cheek. They make him seem boyish and fun. With one of his hands, he mimics drinking a cup of tea by holding his thumb and forefinger together and holding the other hand flat like a saucer. Both he and the blond have these apologetic looks on their faces with just a hint of mirth. I get it. They don't speak any French. I don't know any English. This should prove fun.

"Of course," I say. I mimic the same movements but give them the word for tea. They both nod vigorously.

"Can I get you anything to eat?" I rub my stomach and put my fingers to my mouth.

The dark curly-haired one points to the counter over and over, signalling for me to bring an assortment of baked goods.

I laugh and nod then turn to the third man. His back is to me, so I have to shuffle a bit to see his face. He's looking off into the distance, not really focused on anything. One of the others kicks him from under the table and says his name. I am close enough now to hear clearly what it is. Edward. It's a nice enough name, and it translates well to French. This Edward is startled by the kick and brought back from wherever his mind had wandered. He leans his head back to look at me and pulls his toque off at the same time. His hair is a much lighter brown and sticks up in an unkempt mess upon his head as if his hair got into a fight with the toque and the toque won.

He doesn't smile but moves his hands as someone would do with a grinder. I beam at him hoping to put him at ease.

"Coffee?" He nods his head once in answer.

"Anything to eat?" I ask repeating the eating sign the other two understood.

This Edward just stares at me for an uncomfortable moment, then points to me, then points to his heart. He breaks his gaze and turns to his friends in a dismissive gesture.

Well, all right then. I think he wants me to bring him my favourite or he wants to cut out my heart and serve it to him, either one. I'll go with the favourite as the petite tartes au sucre are almost perfect this time, if I may say so myself.

I fetch the teas and coffee first, dropping off milk, cream, and sugar as well. Two large plates, one with savoury items, the other with sweet ones, go in front of the two friendlier men. For the Edward fellow, I bring three of the prettiest petite tarte au sucre from the first batch; they are just a little warm and almost set. The best ones are a little later in the year when I make them with maple syrup instead of brown sugar. Father Marcus has had to give me much penance and lecturing every year over my maple sugar sins. Lust, greed, gluttony, and anger for certain; possibly some other sins as well. It's an innocent addiction, in my mind at least.

After I place the plate in front of the odd fellow, I go back to work. The gallettes are done so now it's time for the tourtière. Not my favourite dish to eat or to make. Perhaps because my mother ruins hers with too much nutmeg every time. Adding insult to injury, she won't let me make it for her. She stands by her recipe and her technique with vehemence. Father sides with her although he comes into the shop more frequently when he knows we're making it. This is, perhaps, the last time I'll make it for the shop this winter. It is supposed to be a Christmas dish, but if Madame Goff said make them for the dance, then I make them for the dance. Soon we will move on to lighter fare, fresher ingredients, not salted, cured, or dried staples. It's one of the real joys of spring for me. That and watching the men work on the river, watching them scramble over the felled logs like dancers. There's a thrill of danger to watch them and a very serious danger to be them.

I fill and top eight pies while keeping an eye on the men and other customers. They make very quick work of the treats. Their comments are loud and seem complimentary, but it's difficult to say because of the language. They could be proclaiming my baking to be utter shit; I have no idea.

With leftover pastry, I cut out some snowflakes and maple leaves to decorate the meat pies. I'm so involved with my task that I didn't notice the man standing on the other side of my work counter. When I do and jump because he startled me, he just continues to stand there staring at me. I'm starting to wonder if he had been struck on the head by a falling branch or if he's never seen a girl before. Wiping my hands on a clean rag, I walk around the table and stand in front of him, but not too close. I ask him if there's a problem or if there's something I can do for him, but he doesn't respond. He does frown when I speak to him, though, so I wonder if it's just him not understanding my French or just him.

He seems to gather himself because he draws a deep breath and shakes his head a bit. He then lowers himself to one knee and grabs my hand. He starts talking, and I have no idea what he's saying, but it seems as if he's proposing marriage. He's in the right position to do so, but that would be ridiculous. He holds my hand tightly then places a gentle kiss on the back of it. I just stand there gaping at him.

His friends are laughing at him, but he takes no notice of them. I guess what he said was funny, and I try really hard not to let my eyes water with tears. I don't enjoy being the butt of their jokes, and it's really rude of them to include me for no reason. I can't say anything because, firstly, they won't understand, and secondly, Madame would fire me. So, I stand there and take it but employ some of Rose's more choice swear words in my head. I pat that Edward fellow on the cheek as a dismissal and gently remove my hand from his. He stands and says something else before walking away. The dark-haired one winks at me then the three of them leave. They leave plenty of money on their table to cover their food cost. The rest I put aside for Madame. If they don't come back for it, she'll divvy it up between all her workers after her sizable cut.

I decide to think on this later and maybe discuss it with Alice and Rose. They may have some insight into the odd behaviour.

The tourtière turns out perfectly, despite the odd events of the day.

Rose and Alice have no idea what to think about the interaction with that Edward fellow, but Rose does know about the other men. The dark one has been on the logging crew for two other seasons, the blond for three. They haven't heard anything bad about the men, in town or otherwise. In fact, the blond one is quite high up in the camp. He's trusted to loosen the boom if it gets jammed along the river. He's the one who places the dynamite and blows the boom safely. He has the scars to prove it. His name is Jasper, and he comes from somewhere in America, but his family emigrated from one of the Nordic countries, so he can take our cold. Alice likes the sound of him, and she just might seek him out at the dance.

The dark one is Emmett. He's one of the ones Vera wanted but didn't catch. Rose says he was really sweet to Vera but didn't lead her on in any way. He does know a few words of French but is really shy about using it. He is not the best dancer, according to Vera, but a nice, big, strong man. He's a feller. He scrambles up the trees and lops off the branches before cutting them down. One would think that a smaller man would do that, but his strength is needed. Rose gets a twinkle in her eye when she talks about him, so I think she's going to let him fill her dance card if he so chooses.

They know next to nothing about that Edward fellow. I guess he's new to the crew. It's a pity, really, because he could be seen as quite handsome. When he's not behaving oddly, that is.

He came to the bakery again Friday. He didn't order anything. He just walked in the door and stood there until I looked at him. He nodded his head, gave a little wave, and walked out again.

I'm starting to wonder what he was up to, and I worry that he'll do something mean to me at the dance. I don't know if I even want to go because Maman is forcing me to dance with who she calls _acceptable suitors_. There are three or so that have caught her eye. One is just finishing his apprenticeship with the doctor in Alma. He's English. Then there's the barrister from New Brunswick. He is much older and is visiting an elderly aunt, which is why he'll be here for the dance. He's going to set up working in Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha!. That's too far away from home and my friends. And then there's the son of one of the local merchants. He smells funny and is always picking his teeth. Rose, Alice, and I can't stand him, but he is popular with the mothers in town. They all think he's the catch of the year. His name is Michel. More than half the men I know are named Michel, but he wants to be called by the English nickname of Mike for some reason. Perhaps he thinks it'll help him in the business world later, but it's not right to me. It sounds funny and feels weird in my mouth to say. Something about the shape of the word, Mike—bah. Alice laughs at me when I try to explain it, but I don't care.

Alice brought my dress over early. She knew Maman would need to approve of it before the dance. As if I'd wear something scandalous or risqué—Pfft. I'd rather remain a spinster than try to whore myself with a naughty dress. Plus, my idea of scandalous and my parents' ideas are entirely different. I saw a tintype of my mother as a young girl. She wore this dress with massive puffed sleeves and the hem was at the middle of her calf. At least, my dress is longer; the hem brushes the top of my boot, so I'm not showing any ankle. Yes, the decolleté is a bit lower, but that's the fashion. It's not like you can see my bosoms or anything. You can barely see my collarbones. The sleeves end at my elbow, and it is a very pretty dress. Alice has outdone herself. It's white eyelet lace with light blue embroidery along the edges. It is very slim, fitted to my hips, but has tiers that flounce out all the way down to the hem. The waist is quite high and tied with a wide blue sash. My favourite part is the cape collar. It stops just below the fullest part of my bosom and helps to make my waist look very tiny. It also helps my bosom look bigger. Maman really hates that part. Papa turned a blind eye and hushed Mother's fretting.

The dance has barely started by the time we get to the church hall. Papa likes to arrive early to let everyone know there is a police presence. Unfortunately, he also tends to fall asleep in his chair, so the only thing present is his snoring. The band usually ends up playing to his rhythm. Maman wakes him when it is time for the underage crowd to leave, so I have no idea what the crowd gets up to after he is gone. Father Marcus stays and keeps an eagle eye on everything, I guess. I hope that doesn't happen tonight. It would be embarrassing

This is the first year I won't have to leave when they do. Every year my mother ends up at the refreshment table, and every year she complains bitterly about it. As we leave the house, she lectures us about being taken advantage of and not letting the other ladies bully her into serving. However, we both know where she'll end up. The best gossip is at the snack table.

The crowd is small, and there are only a few couples dancing. Papa makes his rounds, shaking hands and slapping shoulders. Maman silently critiques the other women's dresses and sends me withering looks to show her feelings. She finds fault in everything, even if she has to manufacture the faults herself.

Alice arrives with her parents. Her dress is a bit more modest than mine in that the hem brushes the toe of her boots and her sleeves are to her wrists. It is also white, with gay yellow flowers but only at the hem. She whispers to me that it took her hours to appliqué them, and she only just finished. She twirls for me to check for any loose threads. There are none.

Her mother is still standing at the doorway, holding tightly to a rosary, ready to repent at any moment for the first sign of sin. Her father rushes off to the drinks table. Perhaps I am being cruel and judgemental towards Madame Brandon. I shall have to ask Father Marcus. Although, I'd rather not have need for a rosary myself, and not respecting your elders is worth heavy penance, or it has been in the past. Maybe I'll just bite my tongue and keep my thoughts to myself.

Alice greets me like she hasn't seen me for months. Madame Brandon wanders off, and Alice and I wait for Rose. I'm sure it is a coincidence that Rose arrives just as the small band stops playing. Everyone notices her, as usual. Her dress is dark grey, simply cut, and sparsely adorned. Rose herself is all the decoration her dress needs. I would be jealous if I didn't love her so.

The men start descending as soon as Rose is with us. Alice and I exchange a look, both of us knowing we won't get to speak to Rose again until we meet tomorrow. We have plans for the early afternoon to go down to the river to watch the start of the log drive.

Alice is whisked off, and I'm left standing alone. Not for very long, though. First comes the English doctor. He's nice enough, well groomed, polite, and trying very hard to speak good French. He's boring. There's no spark about him. He's bland like unsalted butter. I may not have much experience, but I know enough to understand he is not marriage material. At least, not for me. The man may be educated, but he has no rhythm.

Michel is watching me dance with the doctor the whole time. He is chatting with my father and trying to look worldly. Every time I see him, I'm reminded of the way he burst into tears when we were children. He'd fallen and torn his trousers at the seat. He cried and cried. I would have been more sympathetic if he hadn't flung a handful of mud at Alice a few moments prior to falling. He was always that way as a child. He could torment everyone else, but heaven forbid anything happened to him. He was always one way in front of the adults and another when it was just us children.

He saunters over when the doctor makes his bow. Michel doesn't even ask, he just grabs my hand and waist and starts to move me over the floor. The band hadn't even started the new song yet. He never listens. He also doesn't talk to me. He just propels me around the room, looking over my head at all the other girls here. He is a lousy dancer, and my toes are paying the price. I would dearly like to introduce my knee to his groin, but Maman would be mortified at the scene. I just settle for sighing loudly and frequently.

Then it's the lawyer from New Brunswick. My mother brings him over and introduces us. I don't know what she is thinking for he looks far too old for me. I politely dance with him but give him no sign that I could ever be interested. He tells me he is only twenty-eight, but his lack of hair and rotting teeth make me think he is at least thirty-four. Ancient in comparison. I fix my mother with a sharp scowl; she knows I am displeased, so hopefully she won't invite him for supper, and she'll take him off her list.

I've almost paid my price to my parents, and I'm free to find Alice again. The poor dear is having her dance with Michel. She looks about as excited as I'm sure I did with him. My last duty is to find my papa and dance with him. I do and he tells me everything he has learned from speaking to the other men at the dance. The noise of the crowd grows as the men from the logging camp arrive. I catch sight of Emmett, who has tamed his curly hair and scrubbed his face to a pink shine. Jasper stands beside him, surveying the crowd. His curls are tidy, but it looks like he did not make the same effort Emmett did. Papa and I dance past them twice before Jasper catches my eye and smiles. I see him elbow Emmett, but Papa whisks me away too quickly to see anything else. After the music stops, Papa escorts me to the refreshment table where Mother is holding court. I have a quick glass of soft cider; the hard cider comes out later in the night. I've never tried it, but I've heard it has led to many an ill-advised proposal, and Papa lets me go for now. I rush off to catch Alice.

Alice has been dancing with a boy a head shorter than her. He is six, the younger brother of a former school friend. He looks at her with the eye of a man in love. When the song is done, she kisses him on the cheek, and he scampers off to his mother, shouting about his girl and her kiss. Alice manages to contain her laughter until we are together at the back of the church hall. We stand there laughing together for quite a while.

The dance floor is packed with dancers. Women in pale pastel colours, their skirts billowing and swishing in tempo to the music. The men in dark suits with high, tight, starched shirt collars and cinching ties. Only the girls under sixteen had their hair down, and it trailed behind them as they danced together, usually giggling and squealing. The men uniformly had their hair plastered to their heads with comb tracks clearly visible. With most of them, one could see the impression from the hat they had worn here but left in the men's cloakroom. Some of the married women wore their hats still, and they were silly little confections of pressed wool and feathers.

That's one of the things I dread about getting married: having to wear hats in public. I deplore the feeling of anything on my head. It is bad enough to have to wear my hair up in a bun at all times, but to add a hat, well, it makes me cringe. Maman used to make me wear these ridiculous bonnets to school. As soon as I was out of her eyesight, I'd remove the bonnet and stash it in my lunch pail. I always remembered to put it on before I neared home. I got away with my crime for six of my eight years of school. It was the one sin against my parents that Father Marcus forgave without penance, for he too hated having something on his head.

There's a hum that runs through the crowd that caught both my attention and Alice's. Walking purposely through the gathering towards the refreshment table is that Edward fellow. What's remarkable, and sets the crowd to whispering, is what he's wearing. At first, one notices just the suit jacket, standard cut and very dark grey. Starched white shirt with the same coloured tie as the jacket. His hair is not tamed by pommade or slicked back, but in the same dishabille as it had been each time I've seen him. I would feel badly for him if it were his hair that had the busybodies and gossips twittering behind his back. Truth be told, I quite like his hair. It's rich-looking, thick and wild. Its colour reminds me of the caramel we make for the croquembouche for weddings. If I were bold and a hussy, I'd have my hands in that hair as soon as I could.

But as the crowd parts and he nears the drinks table, it is easier to see why the crowd is agog. For he is proudly wearing a kilt. The colours are muted and green. His back is now to me, and I can see several inches on the uncovered back of his knee before thick, dark green socks cover his calves. Alice stifles a giggle behind one fist, but I find nothing funny about the situation. I haven't seen a man's bare leg before. Only one word comes to mind. Hairy.

That Edward fellow stops in front of my father and makes a slight bow, then holds out his right hand. Papa looks at the Scotsman, then at the offered hand, and then at the Scotsman again. He asks Edward if there is a problem he could help with, but Edward just stands there with his hand out. Papa shakes his hand and waits. Edward prattles something off in English and nods his head in a bow again. It sounds a bit as though Edward is introducing himself. It is an odd thing to do at a dance, but perhaps it is a Scottish custom. I've not met many Scots, at least not many that haven't been here in Québec for ages. Many, many Irish. In fact, without the Irish, I don't think there would be a Québec at all. We would have been swallowed up by English Canada by now.

Emmett makes his way through the crowd and speaks to my father. Papa then waves over to where Maman is standing behind the other refreshment table. The whole introduction scene is played over again but this time with my mother. That Edward fellow goes so far as to kiss the back of my mother's hand. I am getting increasingly worried by all the pageantry.

My very nervous-looking Maman first calls for Papa and then for me. As if I could be of any help. Still laughing but holding it in, Alice sounds a bit like a tea kettle just prior to boiling, a very snuffling sort of high-pitched noise. She slides behind me and starts pushing me by my shoulder blades towards my parents and that Edward fellow. I don't know how she manages it. I've got my heels dug in, and I'm leaning back in reluctance, but somehow, she forces me over to the centre of the crowd. I can hear the laughter, and I really, truly don't give a damn. I find it rude that the locals are finding mirth in this foreigner. Yes, he has been odd with me but nothing warrants laughing at him.

My father says my name, and that Edward fellow repeats it. It sounds entirely different coming from his mouth than when Papa says it. My mother walks around the table and with one hand pats me gently on the cheek, the other hand reaches around and pinches me very hard on the side just above my hip. I know that pinch and what it means: _DO NOT EMBARRASS ME IN PUBLIC, CHILD._ I am very well acquainted with that pinch although we have been strangers for the last few years. Mother trained me well. I smile and bob a little curtsey at that Edward fellow. He just regards me with a stern look on his face. But his eyes, my God, his eyes are dancing. There are a million hidden smiles in his eyes, and they are boring into my brain to read all my secrets. He stiffly nods his head and holds out his right hand, palm up. Not for shaking or an introduction but an invitation to dance. The crowd stops its quiet laughing, and there's a very pregnant pause before I place my hand in his. He folds his fingers over my entire hand and pulls me, very gently, to the middle of the dance floor. There is no option, no internal debate, and no confusion; I just follow this man as if I were meant to all along.

He holds my one hand aloft while sliding his other around my waist. He steps close to me, but not too close, and I can hear my mother's voice in my head, "Remember, Isabella, when dancing with a man, leave room for the Holy Ghost to dance between you." He looks at me pointedly, and I lift my other hand up to rest on his shoulder. His very broad, very firm shoulder. The band breaks into a waltz, and my feet leave the ground. I'm flying. There is no conscious movement needed. All I feel is his hand on my lower back and my hand in his. I don't know how long we dance. It could be minutes, it could be hours, I'm not certain. What I do know is that in all the time we dance, his eyes never leave mine.

When there's a break in the music, he takes my arm and loops it over his own. He deposits me on one of the benches and walks away. My brain has stopped working, and I just sit there. He returns with a large glass of cider and a plate piled high with treats, all ones that I have baked for this occasion. Mostly, the tartes but a few others. There is one lone piece of tourtière on the plate. I guess he has a sweet tooth.

He sits beside me, leaving enough space for the items that he had brought. He takes a moment to arrange his kilt and the pouch thing that hangs off his waist. He reaches down with his right hand and out of his tall sock, produces a small knife. He uses the knife to cut the pastries in two and offers the plate to me. He looks a little saddened when I refuse the treats. I have no idea how to explain to him that day after day of baking has made me tired of baked goods. As well, I'm too nervous to eat. He points to the glass and that I accept. All the dancing has made me very thirsty. He watches me as I take a large sip, and I start to wonder if perhaps I am some sort of oddity to him. If I am something to be observed and studied. I am beginning to be quite uncomfortable when he starts to speak.

I haven't the slightest clue what he is saying. He gestures to some of the tartes and prattles on. I really enjoy the way he speaks for he has a lovely voice with a very musical cadence. Partway through his speech, he holds the plate to his nose and inhales a deep breath, then he leans over and does the same to my hair, or perhaps it is my neck, I'm not sure. When he backs away, there is a longing in his eyes, so I gather that he likes the way I smell. He goes back to his recitation, and I think maybe I catch a few words. I could be wrong, but I think he might be talking about his mother. A word he keeps saying sounds like mother in Latin. I recognise the word from several of Father Marcus' lectures during confession. One knows that Father Marcus is serious and angry when he breaks out the Latin.

He eats heartily from the plate, only leaving the other half of the tourtière behind. I gather it is not a favourite of his. He smiles at me, and he puts the plate down on the bench on his other side. He takes my hands in his and starts talking again, pausing to drink now and then. He stops his speech to raise one hand and gently stroke my cheek with the backs of his fingers. He cups my chin with that hand and turns my face slightly so that he can place a kiss there. His kiss is much different than any other I have ever received. The kisses I get in greetings or kisses on the cheek from my father do not run shivers down my skin nor do they stop my lungs from breathing momentarily. Edward's kiss does, and I'm now lost.

I am a silly girl like the ones Rose, Alice, and I have laughed at over the years. The ones who seem to fall in love at the drop of a hat; the ones that invariably get their hearts broken time and again.

Edward slips off the bench and holds my right hand in both of his. My hand feels as though it is on fire, so warm and completely engulfed by his larger hands. He is on one knee in front of me again. He is looking at me with expectation in his eyes, and I think he might once again be proposing.

As much as the idea thrills me and as much as his kiss thrills me, I can't. He is so very handsome, but more importantly, he looks strong and seems kind and gentle, but there is too much that is unknown. I can't marry a man who only likes me for my scent and the way I remind him of his mother. The scent washes off, and I am not his mother, nor do I want to be. In a few months of marriage, his eye might wander and his feelings could wane. There may be a child or two but there would be little else. He would miss home and go back for a visit, never to return to me. I've read about it before in some of the romance books Rose has. Again, I pat him gently on the cheek, but this time, I shake my head no. I hope he will understand. He drops his head and heaves a great sigh. He squeezes my hand and lets go of it. He stands and walks away from me.

In a matter of minutes, I have lost my one and only suitor. I gather the glass and plate to bring back to the refreshment table. My mother is too busy to notice me, thankfully. I spy Alice chatting with Jasper with a very wide smile on her face. I'm so very glad it seems to be going well for her. Rose is standing beside Emmett, who is talking to Edward. Perhaps both my friends have made a match tonight. It would be wonderful for them if they did, and I would be ecstatic. I can see each of their wedding cakes in my mind, and I start planning. The mathematics alone keep my mind busy enough not to notice that my heart is aching. I wish I could run over to that Edward fellow and tell him of my misgivings. That I wish to know more about him before I accept his hand and for him to know more about me.

I am standing at the refreshment table, still lost in thought, when Emmett appears before me. With a big smile on his face, he holds out his right hand and asks me to dance.

The band starts up again, and I agree. Rose knows I would never steal her man from her so she must have sent him over because I looked so desolate.

"I was they called you Emmett." He says, proudly.

I school my features and bite my tongue. I know French is a difficult language, and I appreciate his trying to speak it for me even if he is doing a really bad job. His French is understandable and he says the words correctly, but in the wrong order and tense.

"My boyfriend Edward liked you." Ah, Rose didn't ask him to dance with me.

"You are a good friend to Edward." I speak slowly so I don't confuse him too much.

"No, no, when he first seeing you, he like you lookings. Then you talkings sound. Then you smelling sugar and home mother cookings."

I don't really know what to say to this. I smile at Emmett and nod.

"He not unserious with marriage just fast, yes?" I laugh a little at the look on Emmett's face. He is trying so hard to advocate for his friend.

"Edward good, strong man. New to Québec and home lonely. He face happy firstly when he looks you. Talk about live here for life now not home going when money in. You think on him for now, yes."

I give Emmett's shoulder a pat and thank him for the dance. He doesn't try to say anything else about Edward but smiles at me like he won a prize. I watch as he walks back to Rosalie. She looks so happy to have him back with her.

Papa takes my arm and I walk with him around the room as he says goodnight to everyone. While we wait for Mother to finish up, Papa stares at the couples dancing.

"When I first saw your mother, she was such a great beauty; I never thought I'd have a chance. So I hung back and watched her from afar. My own father said to me, ' _Nothing in this life is certain, Charles, you can't fail before you try_.'" He kissed me on the forehead and said goodnight with a reminder to be home in an hour.

I wandered back to the bench to wait and think. Alice will find me here when it is time to go home. We made plans to be each other's escort home as we live so close. Rose will walk home with her parents.

My pondering is interrupted by a large pair of black shoes. I had been lost in thought, staring at a knot of wood in the floorboards. I know who it is before I look up. Edward says my name but it doesn't sound quite right coming from his mouth. His _Isabella_ is more like _Ishabella,_ and it makes me smile.

"Just Bella," I say to him.

The stern look on his face melts away. With a smirk he tries again. "Bella?"

"Yes, Edward?"

"Dance with me, if you please?" he says in perfect French.

"Of course." I stand and we take to the floor again. He learned some French, just for me. I am touched. Perhaps there is hope after all.

The music is very fast, and we are spinning around the dance floor so quickly I am getting dizzy. The feeling is making me giggle. He has pulled me so close that I know we are breaking at least some of Father Marcus' rules and, perhaps, all of my mother's. We are twirling 'round and 'round, the room is swirling, and people are cheering and clapping. Edward quickly diverts us to behind the vestry door. I can still hear the crowd but the sound is muted now. Edward stands in front of me, panting from the effort of dancing so quickly. He leans in and places one hand on the wall behind me. The other he puts on my cheek. He says my name again, then he kisses me.

This is a real kiss, like one out of Rose's illicit books. I am certain my head is no longer connected to my body. I can just feel his lips on mine and his hand on my neck. Both are hot but not quite hot enough to burn. Warm and flowy like maple taffy when it is ready for pulling. I reach my hands up and run my fingers through his hair. I've wanted to do that since the first time I saw him. It's not silky but it is thick and soft and luxuriant on my fingers.

Oh-so-slowly, my entire body is engulfed in heat as he presses his body against mine. This has got to be a sin, but why, when it feels so good? He makes a throaty moan against my mouth and presses his lips harder to mine. I respond by lifting up on my toes to reach him better. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his hand, which had been flat on the wall by my head, is now in a fist. I close my eyes, but I can hear his fist pushing into the wall then retreating, as if he is trying to keep it there but it wants to wander on its own. I guess the hand won the argument because, all of a sudden, I can feel it at the small of my back, pulling me closer to Edward.

His lips move over mine, tensing and releasing, and forcing mine to do the same. It is a hypnotic feeling. The hand that was gently gripping the back of my neck is now inching down my chest to my ribcage just under my breast. I don't know what will happen to me if he touches it. I know that, as a good girl, I shouldn't allow him to, but at the moment, I'm anything but a good girl. I'm so far away from a good girl that I want his hands on me. My fingers flex and grip his hair. He tentatively slides his hand up and takes firm possession of my breast. The feeling overwhelms me, and I make a small noise. He tries to pull back a little, but I grab him harder by the hair to make him stay. He squeezes my breast gently but with purpose, then he moves his thumb so that it brushes across my hardened nipple. The noise I make then is not small. I tear my lips away from his and gasp for breath. Edward tilts his head and starts kissing my neck. My knees are threatening to give out and no longer sustain my weight.

Somehow and somewhere in the darkest corner of my mind, I notice a shuffling noise and a loud coughing nearby. Edward hears the noise as well because he stops the glorious things he is doing to my neck and lifts his head to look at me. His hand drops down to my waist. The smile he gives me is angelic, straight out of the gospel picture books Father Marcus uses to teach the children their lessons although I highly doubt Father Marcus would approve of the reason for this beatific smile.

Edward quickly drops to one knee, again. He talks to me in very quick English, holding one of my hands. I laugh and pat him on the cheek, again. He winks at me as he rises to his feet. He pokes his head out the vestry door then leads me out behind him.

The dance is finishing up. Edward makes a pointed nod to Emmett, who must be responsible for the warning. Alice and Rose take me into the ladies' cloakroom, both of them silent with knowing looks on their faces. We gather our coats and rejoin the men. Rose's parents have joined the group and are sizing up the young men. They give permission for Emmett to accompany Rosalie home and agree that my parents and Alice's would most likely be understanding if the other men were to walk with us. They know Alice would permit no shenanigans.

We don't speak the entire walk to my house. We stand at the gate watching Alice walk arm-in-arm with Jasper until they reach her house further down the block.

Edward turns to me and lifts my hand that had been holding his arm. He moves the fabric of my glove away and kisses the back of my hand. This kiss feels much different than the last time he kissed my hand. It was more sensual, perhaps because I now know what that kiss feels like on other parts of my body. He said something that ended in my last name, then nodded his head in a slight bow and started walking down the street towards Jasper. I stood there for a moment, watching him walk away from me before I turned and wandered into my house. The lantern was still lit by the door, and I knew my parents were waiting for me inside. I could hear them talking as I opened the door. Papa was telling Maman not to force me to answer all her questions tonight and for her to give me some time to think. I called out my arrival, quickly followed by bidding them goodnight. I escaped to my room and flung myself on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time before I fell asleep.

I must have slept, for the sun did rise and reach its long fingers of light under my lids. I must have slept, but for the life of me, I can't remember. I'm usually a frequent waker, a roller, kicker, an active sleeper. This morning, though, my quilts were smooth, my pillow unmolested, and I had no recollection of moments of waking during the night. I also don't recall changing into my nightclothes. My evening dress is hanging from a peg on the wall beside my other dresses. I must have been in quite the trance last night. Slowly, I come to my normal self and can hear Papa in the kitchen.

One day a week Papa cooks breakfast for us. Papa can cook only a few things, but what he can cook, he cooks very well. His main speciality is crêpes. He can make the thinnest, most delicate crêpes this side of Paris. He has promised to tell me his secret on my wedding day. His other speciality is a ragoût he makes once a year during hunting season. He and a few friends get together to trade their kills. Papa comes home with all manner of birds and beasts. He fashions this ragoût and uses a very uncharacteristically light hand to make, as an accompaniment, the most delicate biscuits known to man. He puts almost all his culinary talent into that one dish so that he is spent for the rest of the year. Except for his crêpes. As I reach the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee and vanilla washes over me. Papa stands in front of the wood stove with a tin plate at his side, piled high with golden-edged crêpes. He hums when I kiss his cheek. I try not to laugh, as he is wearing Maman's floral apron. He hushes me and whispers in my ear.

"Maman is resting still. Take a few crêpes and leave afore she wakes. Spare yourself the inquisition for now. He is a good man, no?" Papa has a knowing look in his eye.

I feel my eyes tingle with not quite tears but something similar. I nod to my father and thank him. I rush silently back to my room and prepare in record speed. I quickly wash my face and dress in my favourite blue gingham dress. The second time I walk into the kitchen, my father has a tin cup of coffee and a plate of breakfast covered with a cloth for me. I hurry out with my breakfast in my hand. Paroled to the outdoors, I quickly finish the coffee and leave the cup on the fence post. I do not fear my mother—I love her dearly—however, she would have talked for hours over breakfast and gleaned every last detail from me regarding Edward. I would miss meeting Alice and Rose at the river to see the drive, and Mother would most likely forbid me from ever seeing Edward again once she found out how brazen I was with him. Or perhaps he was the brazen one. I can't rightly remember although I wouldn't change a moment of our encounter. I can feel his hands on me just as well now as they were last night.

I'm early to meet Rose and Alice, so I find a comfortable spot and eat my crêpes. Papa has layered each with butter and brown sugar so I only have to roll them to eat them. It will be a few weeks until this year's maple crop is ready. Then maple sugar will replace brown sugar, and the monster that lives within me will be satisfied. If I did not know better, I would lie under a tapped tree and drink the sap like mother's milk. It is cruel to have to wait until the sap has boiled and reduced enough for the sweetness to emerge. However, the reward is worth the torment, barely, in my opinion, but worth it the same.

I'm drawn out of my maple reverie by the sounds of Alice and Rose coming down the path. Rose is giggling like I have never heard before. Not that she is not a happy person, just she is not a twitterer. She is more serious in her amusement. She either laughs or she doesn't; there is no girlish giggling from Rose. Alice is regarding her carefully.

First Rose, then Alice appear on the fallen log upon which I am sitting. Rose launches into her tale, her reason for giddy, girlish laughter, her Emmett story. He made an impression on her parents when he walked her home. Rose's mother is livid, but her father well approves of the match. The approval had much to do with the fact that Emmett's father and grandfather produce an alcohol that is strictly American but has an oddly French name. Rose's father is eager to be a distributor of the bourbon Emmett's family produces, as well as a sampler, much to his wife's chagrin. Due to his love of spirits, he can overlook the coarseness of Emmett's French language skills and deportment. Rose doesn't care. She likes Emmett for Emmett; her parent's opinion be damned.

Alice is likewise smitten with Jasper. Quite smitten, almost to the point of adoration. However, Jasper's Lutheran upbringing soured her mother against him until Jasper pledged to convert to Catholicism. Alice is worried that the classes and requirements will wear on Jasper's love for her, and he will not go through with it in the end. He would not hear of her leaving her church for him. That argument was very quickly stifled. Apparently, Jasper is sanguine in his course. He will figuratively unnail the theses from the door and do whatever it takes to have Alice at his side. Martin Luther may just turn over in his grave.

I listen in wonder to their tales and feel a little put out. I can't even speak to Edward properly. I can't understand a word he says, and although he did learn a phrase for me, it is not enough to build a relationship. After one dance, both Alice and Rose are years ahead of me, and the task before me seems almost too daunting. Edward had been before me on bended knee a few times, but what if he is proposing something other than marriage? What if he refuses to share my church? Would he force me into his own? What if his parents dislike me? Would he stand up to them in my name? I feel as though I'm floundering in water just above my head.

And then I see them. Standing on the opposite bank of the river. Perhaps eighteen yards separate us, but those eighteen yards are rushing torrid water. It's glacially cold and dangerous water. The men stand on the bank, watching the water. Most are dressed and ready for work, save for Edward. Perhaps some of the others too, however, once I spy Edward, the rest just fade away. He is wearing his cork boots and dark trousers with suspenders although the suspenders are dangling from his waist. I can see the flannel shirt in his hand, leaving him wearing just the top of his long underwear. They are the deep red of Stanfield's brand, and he wears them unbuttoned to his navel. I have no idea if he saw me; he might've, for I could see nothing but him.

He laid the flannel shirt on a tree branch and approached the water. From behind him, he brings forth a washing cloth, dips it in the freezing water, and washes both his face and chest with it. He moves quickly for the water is cold, but time seems to stand still for me watching the cloth rub back and forth across his bare chest. When he deems himself clean enough, he buttons his long johns and reaches for the plaid flannel. He looks over to me and smiles. Not a huge, teeth-baring smile but a quirk of the lips, eye-flashing smile. He walks away while putting the shirt on.

Emmett and Jasper come down to the water then and wave at us. They motion down the river to where the crib of logs lay. Someone had built a crude bridge to span the river and watch the drive start. Alice is all a-shiver as it is Jasper's job to keep the drive from damming and blow it up if he has to. There is pulpwood at the beginning of the drive and construction wood near the end. Some of Papa's men are here to keep the crowd safely back. Small children run around with their mothers fussing after them. The start of the drive is an event. When we near the clearing of the bridge, Emmett had disappeared but Jasper is standing on the shore just past the bridge. He is standing with a police officer near a large crate. It's the dynamite, according to the symbol on the side. Further down the river, the Wannigan floats, three men on her starboard side with pike poles to catch any logs that might hit the boat. There are other men scattered along the shore to free up any small jams.

With a thunderous noise, the crib is opened and the pulp logs spill out. Finer quality and longer logs start shooting down the flume. None are mast length, but some seemed near enough to it. The noise quiets down with the crib now empty, but there are still the cheers of the crowd, particularly the children of the crowd. It is quiet enough that we hear the booming laughter of Emmett as he rides a really thick timber down the flume. Rose sucks in a sharp breath, and I can hear her muttered curses while we watch his foolhardy shenanigans. As the log nears the water, he stands up and rides it, balancing with his peavey in his hand. The log generates a huge splash and a squeal of delight from all the children watching. Rose just shakes her head. Under her ire and frown, I can just barely see a smile at his antics.

Edward appears mid-stream with another large float of logs. He must have been assigned to a crib further upstream. The two booms join into one massive collection of logs. Crib after crib will be released upstream until a sizeable enough boom is collected. They'll drag this across Lac St. Jean until they reach the mills on the other side.

Edward seems to float above the logs. His feet are so sure and steady; it's as if he were dancing by just standing there. His trousers are wet, but his red flannel shirt remains dry. He has a black knit cap on the back of his head. As he moves further downstream and closer to us, I can see the stern look of concentration on his face. He moves carefully from log to log, his feet never stilling. He sees me then and winks. Alice titters a laugh at my expense.

He picks his way across the river so that the log he is walking on is nearest to the shore. With pageantry, he bows and lifts his cap in my direction all while maintaining a steady stance.

Just past the bridge and the crowd is a patch of white water, the only seriously tricky part between here and the lake. Men have floundered and some have died in the past while negotiating this small area of rapids. There is another gathering area further downstream, but the path leads away from the shore and we all know we would lose sight of the men for at least a few minutes. I wave to Edward as Rose drags me by the arm to the path. She lets go of me quickly, and we move along as fast as the crowd will let us, which is nowhere near fast enough. Molasses in January runs faster.

The entire walk is too slow and nerve-racking. The rapids eat men, and I worry that Edward will be consumed. I watch my feet so as not to fall and muddy my dress. I walk and I think. I think of my father and what he said about seeing my mother for the first time. I think of Rose and Alice and the ease with which they seemed to find their men. I think of Edward and how much I still don't know about him. I think of him moving so fluently across the boom, the grace he has, the strength and control. I imagine the way he might move in the dark of night, under the covers and over me. I picture dancing with him and having him hold me tight. I wonder how different his kiss might be if I were to be his alone. I wonder why it is that a man such as him could be taken with a girl like me. I marvel at his beauty. And then I make my decision.

The crowd thins, and I know we've reached the next landing before I see it. Rose elbows her way to the front and the best sight line. Far ahead of us is Jasper at the front of the boom. Emmett is midstream with the others, pushing and poking the logs into formation. Edward is still at the back of the boom, leaping from log to log as they bump over the rocks in the white water. He is the picture of ease, and he is glorious. As he floats closer, he suddenly jabs his peavey into a thick log, jogs across several of the logs, and leaps onto the shore. He strides over to me and grabs me by my waist. He holds me so tightly I can scarcely breathe. He leans forward and bends me back so far that my straw hat falls off and into the mud. Just before I close my eyes, I see two things, Alice retrieving my hat and Edward closing in for a kiss. The crowd cheers as he kisses me. It is a hard and fast kiss, but I swear I could feel it in every inch of my skin. When he pulls away, he smiles, and I feel his hand creep down my back then squeeze my derrière. I know the folds of my skirts would hide his hand. I know my face is crimson, but I don't care; I just laugh and try to stand. Rose has to put her hands on my shoulders to help me. I stare into his eyes and give him a wink and a nod as I reach for his hand. Holding his gaze and his hand, I lift one foot and kick him in the back of the leg. It has its desired response, for he goes down on one knee before me. I put my free hand on his cheek and say yes, over and over again.

For you see, I had made all my decisions on that walk to see if Edward survived the rapids.

None of it mattered. If he lived through the treacherous waters and kept his footing, I would have him. His job, his religion, his language; none of it mattered. The sudden and inexplicable way he fell for me and I for him was enough. My parents, my society, the rules; all of them are irrelevant. All that mattered was him. If he was there on the other side and still wanted me, I would be his. If he asked me again, in his way, I would marry him. There would be time enough for learning to talk to each other. There would be time enough to work out the details. I would grab life and live it with my log driver.

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